Labels: blank noise

A few months ago, I'd come across a piece of writing that was not just well put together, but also encompassed a very interesting thought: the concept of love, eternity and grammar in Arabic.

"At the heart of all things is the germ of their overthrow", it says, quoting from Adhaf Soueif's The Map of Love. But the author was, at the same time, talking about language. About the word 'enquilab' which means 'overthrow' (or revolution, as we interpret it) which is derived from the word 'qalb', which means 'heart' or the core.

Isn't that fascinating? That, buried within a revolution is a heart, and that the heart of anything contains the seed for the overthrow of that thing. Or all things.

The essay goes on to talk about words of love, what they really means, the fine shades of difference between them, and what god might have enjoined upon those who believe in god.

Do read.

This much is set, Keshav ji – can I call you Keshav?
I feel an affinity, an ease, that is hard to explain,
Considering we’ve never met, and now, never will
Yet I’m sure you won’t mind my speaking so plain –

This much is certain: you will get no memorial, no statue
No marble slab with metal plaque, saying,‘Keshav: martyr’
Nobody will say you died that we might live, or less poetically,
That you upheld a nation’s head, honoured our civilizational charter.

What you died for – were killed for – was too much an everyday thing
So you will not go down as a human rights’ champion
Nor the leader of a bunch of people with a cause
Nor a just warrior for the aggrieved, the downtrodden

Nobody’s going to write that you’re a victim of what we’ve become
Nobody’s spine with tingle with the dread of this fact.
At least, not beyond next week, when you’ll be a statistic -
For that’s the way people keep their minds intact.

Don’t mind, Keshav, it is not on purpose that
Nobody will write you a full-length obit, or
That only one paper bothered to go and dig up
Info on how you lived, and who you lived for.

Keshav, if you knew (did you?) what they’d do
Perhaps you’d have shut up and let it be
Some insults, a woman – it happens all the time
Harassment and women – like sand and sea.

You see, we women rarely bother ourselves
We’ve learnt to shut up and stay shut; some say
Our eyes are glazed with the cataract of silence
We’re told, to live safe, there’s no other way.

Keshav, stupid Keshav, what made you take on
The mantle of hero? It is not as if
Someone was looking, and those who were, looked away
(as they do). Did you think they’d help? As if!

Keshav, young Keshav (only thirty-five, good God!)
They’ll forget. Oh, they forget, they forget each time
They’ve begun to forget the mobs of new years past,
And Meher of Lucknow? Her too! This forgetting’s sublime.

Keshav, it’s true, I cried for you, but so what?
You burnt, you died, and those three will live.
Noone’s clamouring for a public hanging (women’s security
Isn’t 'national') so… yes, some sentence the court may give.

That is, if the police finds those three.
You actually thought they would, and you walked
After being set on fire – two kilometers!
To the police station and there, you talked.

What did you say, Keshav? What were your dying words?
Were you angry rather than scared? Or both?
That I can relate to; it’s the same with me.
That tremulous rage – frustration and fear both.

Did you wonder, as you walked, if you’d actually die?
Did someone tell you, it was your own fault?
Did they say, why couldn’t you guess at
The demons-in-waiting? That you should, by default?

That’s what they tell us; that’s how we go on.
They tell us all the time and that’s how we know
No alone. No dark street. No panga. No sharp words.
No smart clothes. No reds. No smiling. Nono.

Where did you study, Keshav? Which school?
Which blighted, mind-altering, twisted-soul place?
Who taught you? Or forgot to? What kind of friends
Did you have that they tell you the rules of this race?

This race. These people. We. Our nation.
Women. Children. Cosmic pawns playing parts.
What shall I say? Keshav, should I say something like,
You’re a hero and will live in our hearts?

Oh, who cares? Heroes! I bet you’d rather just
Have been alive and maybe all heroes feel that way
To live! That would be nice, they must think, but
They go ahead and die if they must, anyway.

Not that it matters to you any more, Keshav
The writing of this. Any words. Anything.
You were burnt alive before you were properly burnt
And maybe you never did care of what poets sing.

I’d bring you flowers if you had a grave.
I’d build you a statue, if I had a piece of land
I’d write in big letters – ‘Look! This is our shame
And this our pride. This murder is man.’

Listen, Keshav, it is too late, but listen.
Wherever you are, lie in peace, now it’s over.
And know that you stepped up higher than man.
(And lower than man… even God sank no lower)

I’ll spare you the platitudes about how you are free
Or how, in heaven, the apsaras long to kiss you
But this fight you’ve fought, I’ll fight to the death
But Keshav, brother, in the meantime, we’ll miss you.

- Annie Zaidi, Jan 17^th, 2008.

Labels: blank noise

You hit 30. By 35— because you can't spare the time now— you'll decide that you want babies. You'll move to your downtown apartment, be a fabulous mother while running a couple of successful businesses. Oh, and you'll write a novel. An autobiography.

Labels: blank noise

A little bit of history just might have been created on the capital a few days ago. I have been to see Baghdad Burning (in Hindi) at the National School of Drama last weekend and it was (to my knowledge) the first time in this country that someone put together a dramatic production on stage, based on the text of a blog.

I went to see the play because I knew that, whether or not the production was any good, this would mark a historic moment in the cultural landscape. Blogs are producing poetry, stories, essays, perhaps serialized novels. Blogs are producing journalism. For all I know, blogs are also depositories of scripts and screenplays, and if that is the case, they may well have been produced and staged already. But so far, (and correct me if I'm wrong) blogs were not yet being interpreted and adapted specially for the screen.

Baghdad Burning is a fine blog that treads a wonderful line between experiential journalism, write-it-as-I-see-it posts and storytelling. There is inherent drama in an unfolding war and the inevitable tragedy for the citizens who neither propagated it nor supported it and had nowhere to run when it came to their homes. That it calls for a wider audience goes without saying and taking it to the stage, where non-bloggers also have a chance to experience the narrative is a great initiative.

As for Baghdad Burning, the play... I have two reasons for reviewing it here. One, maybe Riverbend might want to know how it turned out (if she has access to the net). Two, I'm hoping that somebody passes on this feedback to the team that put it together. Not because it is a terrible play, but because it has fine moments of intensity and a sorrow so delicate, it was beautiful to watch. I wish the team well, congratulate them and want them to fine-tune it so that the plays gets better reviews and is invited everywhere.

The play opens to the forward left corner of the stage. A laptop, a dim light, a girl sitting with her back to the audience. She begins to read – in English. And right there was stumbling block number one.

I am not a great fan of mixed-language plays. If the characters themselves use a mix of tongues, that's okay. But to have the narrator speak in English and the rest of the dialogue in Hindi does not make a lot of sense. I rather like the fact that it was in Hindi. That brought an immediacy and urgency to the natural poignancy of the text. You could so easily substitute 'Baghdad' for 'Delhi' and the story would be this – the words in the mouths of the players would be this. In just such an idiom, just such a turn of phrase.

Unfortunately, some bits of the text were read out as they were. In a strongly accented English. [Aside: I confess that I'm squirming a bit in my chair while saying this, for I don't want to be accused of diction snobbery] Badly spoken (annunciated) English, on stage, is… is… well, unless it is deliberate and serves to embellish a character, it is just an annoyance. In this case, the diction was making the viewers work hard too hard at deciphering the text. The narrator's voice, then, ceased to work as an effective tool.

I won't bother with a synopsis of what you see on stage – it is complex and should be allowed to stay that way. Also, the structure of the narrative is loose, sequential, just like a series of blog posts, and that too should be treated as legit.

One of the early sequences is that of a family sleeping, or trying to, with war all around. The girl and boy begin identifying the make of the craft, the weapons, the targeted areas, through the sounds of bombing and shelling. It is a game and a sad one. The bad news begins to filter in at the same time. Missing friends, dead phones, the raids at night.

Some posts have been chosen for their telling commentary and some of their stories. The one where a young girl comes seeking legal help, looking for her arrested/missing family. The one where the narrator's aunt comes visiting from London, laden with gifts, only to be witness to a terrifying surprise visit by soldiers (or militias?). The one where an old woman shows around a visitor in a bombed-out place that has become famous for its 'designs' – people hurled with great force against the walls and their death shapes left imprinted there – almost a tourist attraction (my favourite portion). The one where the narrator's home becomes host to a long line of buckets since it is the only one with a thin trickle of water. All these are well-done.

There are parts of the play that are more like short skits which hold together various sequences, and their execution is uneven. There is one sequence where all the various puppet presidents are introduced, which is quite well done. There are sequences more figuratively interpreted than actual (though I cannot recall each post on the blog). One where the central character's laptop is taken away by armed mullah-type men, representing the militias I assume, for the clampdown on women is severe and is represented through the taking away of toolkits, certificates, schoolbags, cracking of whips, and their mummification in white bedsheets.

There is another sequence which is meant to represent the vulgarity of the 'liberation' of Iraq – a man dressed in a silver shirt and a shiny silver pant rides up on stage on a motorbike, with a woman dressed in a skimpy top and a shiny silver skirt riding pillion. They proceed to dance – terribly – and mouth George W Bush's meaningless words about 'liberation'. The sequence goes on way too long to hold audience interest, especially since the dancing is bad and the music loud and garish. In fact, I was mildly uncomfortable with this representation because it seemed to take potshots at American culture: suggesting, perhaps, that dissonance and a bling-bling aesthetic was all there was to it, and that this alien culture would now invade Iraq, along with the soldiers and tanks. Even if Riverbend had expressed concerns about cultural invasion, there are other ways of staging the idea; this was a simplistic, reductive technique that borders on insensitive. If only this was cut out, or cut back at least, the play would be vastly improved, especially considering that it appears early on.

One of the things I like best about the play is the minimalism of the sets. Very few props. The black box method was in evidence, except that this play used benches and used them to good effect, using the simple lines to create flexibility and speed that was essential to a play like this, which moves time and location so often.

I also liked that, despite a smallish cast, many stories could be told. Many of the actors were playing several different characters, which threw me a bit at first. I'd begin to wonder whether it was the same character, reappearing in a new costume. But once this happened a few time, I saw the pattern and even began to enjoy it. Riverbend herself seemed to be constant, though not in a direct way. Her costume didn't change, thankfully, which left constancy and flow to the sequences.

The costumes weren't bad, though the scope for improvement is vast considering that the right clothes can always be borrowed. The men playing mullahs were dressed in long black robes that appeared to have been made for Christian priests in some other play. However, this was a student production and it was obvious that budgets were small.

I liked the music too – the local music, that is. One song was especially catchy; the one with 'umrika umrika' in the chorus. (The silver-shirt-and-skirt sequence was an unfortunate auditory assault.)

I'm afraid I don't have the brochure now so, don't know the names of the cast or crew. But it was a good show, all said and done: a brave effort with some rough edges; nothing that can't be fixed. What is important is that the play retained the quality of humour tinged with bitterness, that it sought a voice of despair combined with spirit, along with fear, pathos and anger. I do hope that it will be staged again in a better, improved form. And I hope that, wherever she is, Riverbend and her family are safe.